Dolly All the Time(7)

“Perfect,” I say. “And I can spend the other three on house stuff. The shutters look tired and everything needs grout.”

“Yeah,” my dad says. “If you look close enough, everything around here needs fixing. But maybe it’s time you let some of it go. Maybe you work four days at the fish house and then treat yourself to a little summer rest.”

I laugh. “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” I reach into my bag and pull out my card catalog of Maud’s recipes. “I’ll be baking in the mornings, and if you guys can’t keep up with all the deliciousness, I’ll be forced to sell some at the fish house.”

He shakes his head. “Bake all you want, but I’m not putting in another counter. I’m not buying a single new thing for that store. Last debt payment’s in August. I turned off my autopay so I can have the full experience of walking out of that bank debt-free. You can come with me.”

“It’s been a long time coming,” I say, pulling him into a hug. “I’ll let you buy me an ice cream after.”

He gives me the smile of a proud, stubborn man. The kind who’s been underwater for decades but who always wants to be the one to pay for ice cream. I’m happy for him, for us, to finally be out from under the weight of that failed second location.

We head into the kitchen and fall into our rhythm, my dad and me, and now Gus. I sweep the kitchen floor, my dad cleans the lettuce. I take a knife to crumbs that have hardened along the metal rim of our old Formica countertop while Gus makes the hamburger patties and regales my dad with statistics about the Red Sox’s new third baseman, Howie Carver. He has so many thoughts and feelings about the Red Sox and Howie Carver that I relax, knowing the conversation will never run dry. Christopher is at the table eating Oreos and watching them talk, but he’s not really listening. I’m definitely calling his doctor tomorrow.

My dad and Gus are outside minding the coals on the barbecue when Naomi arrives. She bursts through the door and calls, “Hey-o!,” as she drops her bag on the table. I put down my carrot scraper and cross the room into her arms in almost one movement. Naomi smells like floral shampoo and cotton candy lip balm, just as she has for thirty years.

“Did you really just work a full day hawking T-shirts?” I ask. “You literally look like you stepped out of a salon.”

“Speaking of which,” she says, lifting a piece of my hair and making a yikes face. “You’re starting to look like you’re in a witch costume.”

“One of my students said that exact same thing,” I say, laughing.

“Kindergarteners don’t lie,” she says. “I can’t believe you’re actually staying the whole summer.”

“I haven’t stayed this long in eighteen years,” I say. “It’ll take a sec to get my bearings, Gus too. But I think it’s the right thing.” I gesture with my head to the sleeping porch.

“Is it bad?”

“I need an electrician, but I can fix the rest,” I say, placing a plate of Triscuits and cheddar cheese on the table.

“Well, Keith Bloomfeld came into the store today,” she says, and takes a hunk of cheese. “Which, as you know, is odd. Locals don’t shop for souvenirs. He wandered around the store for ten minutes before he mentioned that he heard you were in town.”

“No,” I say. It falls out of my mouth like a boulder I’d been sucking on.

“No what? No, you can’t find a night to go to Hog Tied for a basket of chicken and some laughs?”

“Yes, that’s the no I mean.”

Naomi steps toward me. “Let me tell you something you don’t know about Keith. He’s a sweet, single guy with rock-hard abs and a Mustang.”

I laugh. “That does sound like one in a million.”

“Think about it.”

“I do not have the bandwidth. Not even for rock-hard abs and a Mustang.”

“Are you dating anyone at all?”

“Not exactly,” I say, and turn back to scrape carrots.

“Does that mean sort of? There’s a guy and you’re hanging out?”

I turn around and gesture with my scraper. “More like there’s no guy and I’m fine with it. I don’t need the headache or the heartache or actually any of the aches. I’m currently living the ache-free lifestyle.”

“This,” she says. “This is what I’m talking about. You jump to a lot of conclusions about how things are going to turn out with guys you haven’t even met. Mustangs you haven’t even ridden in!”

“And I’m usually right. Even if they’re perfectly fine, they’re going to take up my headspace or, worse, my actual space. I promise you when Gus is grown, I’ll find some kind of companion.”

“You’ve got to stop saying ‘companion.’ I’m picturing you finding your soulmate at the kennel.” It’s possible we’ve had this conversation too many times. “What about a little something fun? Rock-hard abs in the moment?”

“This is my life.” I gesture to the Formica countertops as if getting the gunk out from under the metal rim is my life now. Which, maybe.

“It’s been what? Fourteen years since Niles? And you’re kicking ass at life.” She looks at my hair again and winces. “Generally. I want to see you swept off your feet.”